butterfly
view of a bridge
CHAPTER V.
Walterwas going to India for the winter. It had all been arranged while Aunt Anne sat out on the balcony with Mr. Wimple. Mr. Fisher had explained to Florence that the paper wanted a new correspondent for a time, and that it would be an excellent thing for Walter to get the change and movement of the new life. He was to go out by P. and O., making a short stay at Gibraltar, for business purposes, as well as one at Malta. He had looked anxiously enough at his wife when they were alone again that evening; but she had put out her hands as if in congratulation.
“I am very glad,” was all she said, “it will do you good and make you strong.”
“To live for you and the chicks, my sweet.”
And so they arranged the getting ready; for he was to start by the very next boat, and that sailed in ten days’ time.
“If your mother had been in England you might have gone with me as far as Gib,” Walter remarked. “I suppose you would be afraid to leave the servants in charge?”
“I should like to go,” she answered, as she poured out the coffee—it was breakfast time—“but I couldn’t leave the children.”
“By Jove,” Walter exclaimed, not heeding her answer, “there’s Aunt Anne in a hansom! I say, Floggie dear, let me escape. What on earth does she mean by coming at this hour of the morning? Say I’m not down yet, and shall be at least three hours before I am; but keep the breakfast hot somehow.”
“Couldn’t you see her?”
“No, no, she would want to weep over me if she heard that I was going, and I know I should laugh. Manage to get rid of her soon.” And he flew upstairs as the street door was opened.
“My dear Florence,” Mrs. Baines said, as she walked in with a long footstep and a truly tragic air, “let me put my arms round you, my poor darling.”
“Why, Aunt Anne, what is the matter?” Florence asked cheerfully, and with considerable astonishment.
“You are very brave, my love,” the old lady said, scanning her niece’s face, “but I know all; an hour ago I had a letter telling me of Walter’s departure. My dear, it will break your heart.”
“But why?”
“My love, it will.”
“Oh no,” Florence said, “I am not so foolish. Life is full of ordinary events that bring out very keen feelings, I have been thinking that lately, but one must learn to take them calmly.”
“You do not know what you will suffer when he is gone.”
“No, Aunt Anne, I shall miss him, of course; but I shall hope that he is enjoying himself.”
“My dear Florence, I expected to find you broken-hearted.”
“That would be cruel to him. I am glad he is going, it will do him good, and really I have not had time to think of myself yet, I have been so busy.”
Mrs. Baines considered for a moment.
“That is the reason, I knew there was an explanation somewhere,” she said in an earnest emotional tone. “I knew how unselfish you were from the first moment I saw you, Florence. It is like you, my darling, not to think of yourself. Try not to do so, for you will feel your loneliness bitterly enough when he is gone.”
“But don’t tell me so,” Florence said, half crying, half laughing. “How did you know about it, Aunt Anne?”
“Mr. Wimple told me.”
“Mr. Wimple—have you seen him then?”
“My love, he is one of the most cultivated men I ever met; we have many tastes and sympathies in common. He wrote to ask me to meet him by the Albert Memorial.”
“To meet him!” Florence exclaimed.
“Yes,” answered the old lady solemnly. “He agrees with me that never was there in any age or country a more beautiful work than the Albert Memorial. We arranged to meet and examine it together; he wrote to me just now and mentioned that Walter was going to India; I telegraphed instantly that I could see no one else to-day, for I thought you would welcome my loving sympathy. I came to offer it to you, Florence.” She said the last words in a disappointed and injured voice.
“It was very kind of you, Aunt Anne; but indeed I have only had time to be glad that he would get a rest and pleasant change of work.”
“I must see him before he goes; I may never do so again,” Mrs. Baines said, after a pause.
“Oh yes, you will, dear.”
“I have brought him two little tokens that I thought of him as I hastened to you after hearing the news. I know they will be useful to him. These are glycerine lozenges, Florence; they are excellent for the throat. The sea mist or the desert sand is sure to affect it.”
“Thank you, it was very kind of you; you are much too generous—you make us quite uneasy.” Florence was miserable at the two evils suggested.
“My love, if I had thousands a year you should have them,” Aunt Anne answered, and, intent on her present-making, she went on, “and here is a little case of scissors, they are of different sizes. I know how much gentlemen”—Aunt Anne always said “gentlemen,” never “men,” as do the women of to-day—“like to find a pair suited to their requirements at the moment; I thought they might be useful to him on the voyage.” She gave a sigh of relief as though presenting her gifts had removed a load from her mind. “I suppose Walter is not down yet, my love?”
“He is upstairs,” Florence said, a little guiltily, “I am afraid he will not be down just yet.”
Aunt Anne gave a reflective wink, as though she perfectly understood the reason of Walter’s non-appearance; but if she did she had far too much tact to betray it.
“If it be your wish, my dear, I will forego the pleasure of saying a last good-bye to him.”
“Well, dear Aunt Anne, when he does come down he will have a great deal to do,” Florence answered still more guiltily, for she could not help feeling that Aunt Anne saw through the ruse.
“My love, I quite understand,” Mrs. Baines said solemnly, “and he will know that it was from no lack of affection that I did not wait to see him. Tell him that he will be constantly in my thoughts;” and she slowly gathered her cashmere shawl round her shoulders, and buttoned her black kid gloves.
“Poor Aunt Anne,” Florence thought when she had gone, she would wring a tragedy from every daily trial if she were encouraged. “Oh, you wicked coward,” she said to Walter, “to run away like that.”
“Yes, my darling; but I am starved, and really, you know, Floggie, confound Aunt Anne.”
“Oh, but she is very kind,” Florence said, as she displayed the presents. “How did Mr. Wimple know that you were going to India?” she asked.
“I met him yesterday at the office. He went to see Fisher; it was arranged that he should the other night.”
“It is very extraordinary his striking up a friendship with Aunt Anne.”
“Yes, very extraordinary,” he laughed and then the old lady was forgotten.
The days flew by and the last one came. To-morrow (Thursday) Walter was to start by an early train for Southampton. All his arrangements were complete, and on that last day he had virtually nothing to do, “therefore, Floggie dear,” he pleaded, “let us have a spree.”
“Yes,” she answered, willingly enough, though her heart was heavier than his. “How shall we manage it?”
“Let us stroll about all day or go to Richmond, and come back and have a cosy little dinner somewhere.”
“Here,” she pleaded, “let us dine here, in our own home on this last evening; we’ll have a very nice dinner.”
“Very nice indeed?”
“Very nice indeed, you greedy thing.”
“All right, darling, suppose you go and order it. Then get ready and let’s start as soon as possible; we’ll amuse ourselves well, and forget that we have not a month to do it in. Live and be happy in the present day, dear Floggie,” he went on in a mock-serious tone; “for there is always a chance that to-morrow will not declare itself.”
So they went off, like the boy he was in spite of his more than thirty years, and the girl that she sometimes felt herself to be still in spite of the two children and the eight years of matrimony. They walked a little way. Then Walter had a brilliant idea.
“Let’s get into a hansom,” he said, “drive to Waterloo and take the first train that is going in any pleasant direction; I think Waterloo is the best place for that sort of speculation. This beggar’s horse looks pretty good, jump in.”
As they drove up to the station, a four-wheel cab moved away, the cabman grumbling at the sum that had been given him by two people, a man and a woman, who still stood on the station steps looking after him.
“Why, there’s Wimple!” Walter exclaimed; “and who’s that with him, I wonder?”
Florence looked up quickly. Mr. Wimple wore a shabby grey coat, and round his neck and over his mouth there was a grey comforter, for the October morning was slightly chilly. In his hand he carried a worn brown portmanteau. Beside him stood a tall good-looking young woman of five-and-twenty, commonly, almost vulgarly dressed. She looked after the departing cab with a scowl on her face that told it was she who had paid the scanty fare. As they stood together, they looked poor and common and singularly unprepossessing; it was impossible to help feeling that they were nearly connected. They looked like husband and wife, and of an indefinite and insignificant class. Suddenly Alfred Wimple caught Walter’s eye, he nodded gravely without the least confusion, but he evidently said something quickly and in a low tone to his companion, for they hurried away through one of the station doors.
“That horrid Mr. Wimple seems to possess us lately,” Florence thought.
As they went from the ticket office she saw Mr. Wimple and his friend hurrying along the platform. A minute later they had entered a Portsmouth train which was on the point of starting.
“If that’s his Liphook friend I don’t think much of the looks of her. Alfred always picked up odd people,” Walter thought; but he kept these reflections to himself; all he said aloud was, “I say, Floggie dear, if Wimple turns up while I’m away, don’t be uncivil to him, and give him food if you can manage it. Somehow he always looks half starved, poor beggar. Fisher is going to give him some reviewing to do, perhaps that will help him a bit.”
There was a train starting to Windsor in ten minutes; so they went by it, and strolled down by the river and lingered near the boats, and went into the town and looked at the shops and the outside of the castle. Then they lunched at the confectioner’s, an extravagant lunch which Walter ordered, and afterwards, while they were still drowsy and happy, they hired an open fly and drove to Virginia Water. They hurried back to Windsor in time to catch the 6 p.m. train for town by half a minute, and congratulated themselves upon finding an empty carriage.
“I shall always remember this dear day,” Florence said, as they sat over their last little dinner at home.
“That’s a good thing,” Walter said, “and so will I, dear wife. When I come back we’ll have another like it in memory of this one’s success.” Then he remembered Alfred Wimple. “I should like to know who that girl was,” he thought; “wonder if she’s the daughter of another tailor he doesn’t want to pay, and if I met him to-morrow I wonder what lie he would tell me about her—he always lied, poor beggar.” And this shows that his thoughts were sometimes not as charitable as his words.
The next day very early Walter departed for Southampton. Florence went to see him safely on board.
“We shall have the good little journey together,” he said dismally, for he was loth enough to leave her now that the parting time had come.
But it seemed as if the train flew along the rails in its hurry to get near the sea, and the journey was over directly. There was all the bustle of getting on board; and almost before she knew it, Florence was on her way back to London alone. As if in a dream she walked home from the station, thinking of her husband watching the sea as it widened between him and England. She was glad she had seen the ship, she could imagine him seated at the long table in the saloon, with the punkahs—useless enough at present—waving overhead, or in his cabin, looking out through the porthole at the white crests to the waves. Yes. She could see all his surroundings plainly. She gave a long sigh. She was a brave little woman, and had tried so hard not to break down before Walter, though in the last moment on board, when she had felt as if her heart would break, she had not been able altogether to help it. And now, as she walked home in the dusk without him, she felt as if she could not live through the long months of separation.
“But I will—I will,” she said to herself while the tears trickled down her face; “only itishard, for there is no one in the world like him, no one—no one; and we have never been parted before.”
Every moment, too, she remembered, took him farther away. She told herself again and again how much good the journey would do him, how glad she was that he would get the change; but human nature is human nature still, and will not be controlled by argument. So she quickened her pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let her feelings have their fling.
She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing shorter; it was nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to kiss them. She let herself in with Walter’s latchkey—she kissed it as she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again—and then, having entered, stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square boxes—boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into fashion, and when American arks were unknown. They were covered with brown holland, bordered with faded red braid, and corded with thick brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of which was written, in a hand Florence knew well,Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert. While she was still contemplating the address, a servant, who had heard her enter, came up.
“Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o’clock, ma’am,” she said; “she’s in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a cup of tea, and a little toast that nurse made her have at four o’clock. She’s been waiting to see you.”
It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. Florence went wearily upstairs, and, after a moment’s hesitation to gather courage, entered the drawing-room.
“Aunt Anne!” she exclaimed, “what has happened?”
The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black close-fitting bonnet, though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes when she saw Florence, a last little flash of remembered insult: then she advanced with outstretched hands.
“Florence,” she said, “I have come to you for advice and shelter, I have been insulted—and humiliated”—a quaver came into her voice, she could not go on till indignation returned to give her strength. “Florence,” she begun again, “I have come to you. I—I——”
“Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne!” Florence said, aching with fatigue, and feeling ruefully that her longing for rest and quiet was not likely to be satisfied, yet thinking, oddly enough too, even while she spoke, of Walter going on, farther and farther away across the darkening sea, “what is the matter? tell me, dear.” There was a throbbing pain in her head. It was like the thud-thud of the screw on board his ship.
Aunt Anne raised her head and spoke firmly—
“My love, I have been insulted.”
“Insulted, Aunt Anne, but how?”
“Yes, my love, insulted. I frequently had occasion to reprove the servants for their conduct, for the want of respect they showed me. The cook was abominable, and a reprimand had no effect upon her. To-day her impertinence was past endurance, I told Mrs. North so, and that she must be dismissed. Mrs. North refused—refused, though her servant had forgotten what was due to me, and this morning—— I can’t repeat her words.”
“Well,” said Florence, “but surely you did not let a servant drive——”
“No, dear Florence, it was not the cook who drove me away, I should not allow a subordinate to interfere with my life; it was Mrs. North. She has behaved cruelly to me. She listened to her servants in preference to me. I told her that they showed me no respect, that they entirely forgot what was due to me, and unless she made an example, and dismissed one of them, it would be impossible for me to stay in her house, and then, my love, I was told that—that,” she stopped for a moment, “I can’t tell you,” she went on suddenly; “I can’t repeat it all, Florence; but, my love, there were other reasons—that are impossible to repeat; and I am here—I am here, homeless and miserable, and insulted. I flew to you, I knew you would be indignant, that your dear heart would feel for me.”
“But you were so happy.”
“Yes, my love, I was.”
“And Mrs. North was so kind to you,” Florence went on regretfully; “could you not have managed——”
“No, my love, I must remember what is due to myself.”
“Oh, but, dear Aunt Anne, don’t you think it would have been better to have put up——”
“Florence, if you cannot sympathize with me I must ask you not to discuss the matter,” the old lady answered, raising her head and speaking in a tone of surprise; “there is no trouble you could have come to me with that I should not have felt about as you did.”
Aunt Anne had a remarkable gift for fighting her own battles, Florence thought.
“But don’t you see, Aunt Anne, that——”
“I would prefer not to discuss the matter, my love,” the old lady said loftily. “You are so young and inexperienced that perhaps you cannot enter into my feelings. Either the cook or I had to leave the house. There were other reasons too, I repeat, why I deemed it unadvisable,—why it was impossible to remain. Mrs. North has lately shown a levity of manner that I could not countenance; her sister is no longer with her, and her husband has been thousands of miles away; is away still, yet she is always ready for amusement. I cannot believe that she loves him, or she would show more regret at his absence. I have known what a happy marriage is, Florence, and you know what it is too, my love. You can therefore understand that I thought her conduct reprehensible. I felt it my duty to tell her so.”
“Yes,” Florence said wearily, “I know, I know;” but she could not help thinking that Aunt Anne had behaved rather foolishly.
Then she rang the bell and ordered tea to be made ready in the dining-room, a substantial tea of the sort that women love and men abhor.
“Now rest and forget all the worries,” she said gently. “You are tired and excited, try and forget everything till you have had some tea and are rested. The spare room is quite ready, and you shall go to bed early, as I will, for it has been a long day.”
“I know what you must have gone through,” and Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly, “and that you want to be alone to think of your dear Walter. But I will only intrude on you for one night, to-morrow I will find an apartment.”
“You must not talk like that, for you are very welcome, Aunt Anne,” Florence said gently, though she could not help inwardly chafing at the intrusion, and longing to be alone.
“Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfortably?” Mrs. Baines asked, speaking with the air people sometimes speak of those who have died rather to the satisfaction of their relations.
“Yes, he sailed a few hours ago. I have just come back from Southampton.”
“I know it,” Aunt Anne answered, her voice full of untold feeling; “did he take my simple gifts with him, dear?”
“Yes, he took them,” Florence answered gratefully; “but come downstairs, Aunt Anne, you must be worn out.”
Then in a moment Aunt Anne recovered her old manner, the manner that had some indefinable charm in it, and looked at Florence.
“Yes, my love,” she said, “I am very much fatigued but I am thankful indeed to enjoy your hospitality again. Before I retire to rest I must write some letters, if you will permit your servant to post them.”
Florence had to write one or two letters also. She gave three to the little housemaid to post; as she did so, one of Aunt Anne’s caught her eye. It was addressed to Alfred Wimple. “Perhaps she wanted to tell him something about the Albert Memorial,” she thought, and dismissed the matter from her mind.
triangle shape with leaves
coastal scene with a broken fence
CHAPTER VI.
Thenit was that Florence discovered that Aunt Anne was really a charming person to have in the house, especially with children. She was so bright, so clever with them, so full of little surprises. In her pocket there always lingered some unexpected little present, and at the tip of her tongue some quaint bit of old-world knowledge that was as interesting to grown-up folk as to the children. To see her prim figure about the place seemed to Florence like having lavender among her linen. She was useful too, ready with her fingers to darn some little place in a tablecloth that every one else had overlooked, to sew a button on Monty’s little shoe, or to mend a tear in Catty’s pinafore. Above all, she was so complimentary, so full of admiration, and it was quite evident that she meant with her whole heart all the pretty things she said. She did too. Walter was the son of her favourite brother, and to Florence she had really taken a fancy from the beginning.
“I loved you from the first moment, my love,” she said. “I shall never forget the look of happiness on your face that morning at Brighton when I met you and your dear Walter together. It endeared you to me. It was a happy day,” she added, with a sigh.
“Yes, a very happy day,” Florence answered, affectionately remembering how ungrateful both she and dear Walter had been at the time. This was at breakfast one morning, a week after Walter’s departure. She was pouring out the coffee very quickly because she longed to open her letters, though she knew it was not possible to get yet the one he had posted from Gibraltar.
Aunt Anne meanwhile was undoing a little packet that had come by post addressed to her. Catty and Monty having finished their porridge were intently watching. She stopped when she noticed the gravity of their faces.
“My love,” she said, in the tone of one asking a great favour, “have I your permission to give these dear children some bread and jam?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Florence answered, not looking up from the long letter she was reading.
Aunt Anne, quick to notice, saw that it had a foreign postmark and an enclosure that looked like a cheque. Then she cut some bread and took off the crust before she spread a quantity of butter on the dainty slices, and piled on the top of the butter as much jam as they could carry.
“Oh!” cried the children, with gleeful surprise.
“Dear Aunt Anne,” exclaimed Florence, looking up when she heard it, “I never give them quite so much butter with quite so much jam. It is too rich for them, and we don’t cut off the crusts.”
“The servants will eat them.”
“Indeed they will not,” laughed Florence; “they don’t like crusts.”
“You are much too good to them, love, as you are to every one. They should do as they are told, and be glad to take what they can get. I never have patience with the lower classes,” she added, in the gentlest of voices.
But the words gave Florence a sudden insight into the possible reason of Aunt Anne’s collapse at Mrs. North’s, a catastrophe to which the old lady never referred. The very mention of Mrs. North’s name made her manner a little distant.
“And then, you know,” Florence said, for she was always careful, and now especially, in order to make the very short allowance on which she had put herself in her husband’s absence hold out, “we must not let the children learn to be dainty, must we? So they must try to eat up the crusts of their bread; and we only give them a little butter when they have jam. I never had butter and jam together at all at home,” and she stroked Catty’s fat little hand while she went on reading her letter. “Grandma has written from France, my babes,” she said, looking up after a few minutes; “she sends you each a kiss and five shillings to spend.”
“I shall buy a horse and be a soldier,” Monty declared.
“I shall buy a present for mummy and a little one for Aunt Anne,” said Catty.
“Bless you, my darling, for thinking of me,” the old lady said fervently, and suddenly opening a tin of Devonshire cream, she piled a mass of it on to the bread and butter and jam already before the astonished children. Aunt Anne’s nature gloried in profusion.
“Why,” said Florence, not noticing anything at table, “here is a letter from Madame Celestine—her name is on the seal at least. I don’t owe her anything. Oh no, it isn’t for me.Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert.It is for you, Aunt Anne.”
“Thank you, my love.” Mrs. Baines took it, with an air of slight but dignified vexation. “It was remiss of your servant not to put all my letters beside me. I am sorry you should be troubled with my correspondence.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” Florence answered. “I hope you have not found her very expensive; she can be so sometimes?” and through Florence’s mind there went a remembrance of the dress in which Aunt Anne had appeared on the night of the dinner-party. A little flush, or something like one, went across the old lady’s withered cheek.
“My love,” she said, almost haughtily, “I have not yet given her charges my consideration. I have been too much engaged with more important matters.”
“I sincerely hope she does not owe for that dress,” Florence thought, but she did not dare ask any questions. “Madame Celestine is not a comfortable creditor, nor usually a small one.”
Then she understood Catty’s and Monty’s remarkable silence of the past few minutes. It had suddenly dawned upon her how unusual it was.
“Why, my beloved babes,” she exclaimed, “what are you eating?” and she looked across laughingly at Aunt Anne. “Where did those snowy mountains of cream come from?”
“They came by post, just now, my love,” Mrs. Baines said firmly.
“Oh, you are much too kind, Aunt Anne. But you will spoil the children, you will indeed, as well as their digestions. You are much too good to them; but we shall have to send them away if you corrupt them in this delicious manner.”
“It is most nutritious, I assure you,” Aunt Anne answered, with great gravity, while with dogged and desperate haste she piled more and more cream on to Monty’s plate. “I thought you would like it, Florence. I have ordered three pounds to be sent in one-pound tins at intervals of three days. I hoped that you would think it good for the dear children, that they would have your approbation in eating it.”
“Of course, and I shall eat some too,” Florence answered, trying to chase away Aunt Anne’s earnestness; “only you are much too good to them.”
The old lady looked up with a tender smile on her face.
“It is not possible to be good enough to your children, my darling—yours and Walter’s.”
“Dear Walter,” said Florence, as she rose from the table, “I shall be glad to get his letter. Now, my monkeys, my vagabonds, my darlings, go upstairs and tell nurse to take you out at once to see the trees and the ducks in the pond; go along, go along,” and she ran playfully after the children.
“May I go and buy my horse?” asked Monty; “and I think I shall buy a sword too. I want to kill a man.”
“He is just like his father!” exclaimed Aunt Anne. “What is Catty going to do with her money?” she asked.
“Give it to mummy,” the child answered softly.
“And she is just like you, dear Florence,” said the old lady, in a choking voice.
“She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white rabbit, and a tortoiseshell kitten, and many other things too numerous to mention,” Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little round face. “But go, my babes, go—go and get ready; your beloved mummy wants to turn you out of doors;” and shouting with joy the children scampered off.
Florence took upThe Centre.
“Won’t you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?”
“Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisure time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have some business to transact out of doors; are there any commissions I could execute for you?”
“No, thank you.”
Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the same words.
“By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was not at home”—and this she felt to be a fib.
“He told me that he intended to do so before he left town.”
There was a strange light on Aunt Anne’s face when she spoke of him; her niece saw it with wonder.
“I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him,” she said to herself. “He is delicate and she has no belongings; poor old lady, how sad it must be to have no belongings, no husband, no children, no mother, no anything. I don’t wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr. Wimple.” Then aloud she asked, “Is he going away for long?”
“He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o’clock train to-day,” and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock; “from Waterloo,” she added.
“Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?”
“My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o’clock. I am going out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and then.”
In a moment Aunt Anne’s voice was a shade distant. Florence had only asked the question as a little joke, and with no notion that Aunt Anne would take it seriously.
“I didn’t mean to be curious,” she said, and stroked the old lady’s shoulder.
“I know you did not, my darling. You are the last person in the world to commit a solecism,”—and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne’s face. It made Florence stoop and kiss her.
“And you told me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember,” she went on wickedly; “and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very sympathetic to each other.”
“You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison. We find it pleasant to discuss them altogether. Good-bye, my love; do not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a friend”—and she left the room. Florence took upThe Centreagain, but she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to Aunt Anne.
“I wish I could pay it,” she thought; “but I can’t, in spite of mother’s present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides, Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be offended if I did.”
She put down the paper and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a cheque, locked the drawer and waited.
When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she went to the door nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some soft white muslin tied in a large bow that fell on her chest and relieved the sombreness of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it.
“Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party.”
The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half, ashamed.
“My love, I only go to your parties,” she said; “there are no others in the world that would tempt me.”
“Can you come to me for five minutes before you start? I won’t keep you longer.”
“Yes, with pleasure,” Aunt Anne answered; “but it must only be for five minutes, if you will excuse me for saying so, for I have an appointment that I should deeply regret not being able to keep.”
Florence led the old lady to an easy-chair and shut the door. Then she knelt down by her side, saying humbly but with a voice full of joy, for she was delighted at what she was going to do—if Aunt Anne would only let her do it.
“I want to tell you that—that I had a letter from my mother this morning.”
“I know, my love. I hope she is well, and that you have no anxiety about her.”
“Oh no.”
“She must long to see you, Florence dear.”
“She does; she is such a dear mother, and she is coming to England in two or three weeks’ time.”
“Her society will be a great solace to you.”
“Yes; but what I wanted to tell you is that she has sent me a present.”
“I hope it is a substantial one,” Aunt Anne said, courteously.
“Indeed it is.”
“It rejoices me greatly to hear it, my love.”
“It is money—a cheque. My mother says she sends it to cheer me up after losing Walter.”
“She knew how your tender heart would miss him, my darling;” but she was watching Florence intently with a hungry look that a second self seemed trying to control.
“And as I have had a present of filthy lucre, Aunt Anne, and am delighted and not too proud to take it, so I want you to have a present of filthy lucre and not to be too proud to take it; but just to have this little five-pound note because you love me and for any little odd and end on which you may find it convenient to spend it. It would be so sweet of you to let me share my present as my children shared the cream with you.”
Florence bent her head and kissed the old lady’s hands as she pushed the bit of crisp paper into them. Aunt Anne was not one whit offended, it seemed for a moment as if she were going to break down and cry; but she controlled herself.
“Bless you, my darling, bless you indeed. I take it in the spirit you offer it me; I know the pleasure it is to your generous heart to give, and it is equally one to mine to receive. I could not refuse any gift from you, Florence,” she said, kissing Mrs. Hibbert; and when she departed, it was with an air of having done a gracious and tender deed. But besides this, her footstep had grown lighter, there was a joyfulness in her voice and a flickering smile on her face that showed how much pleasure and relief the money had given her.
“I am so glad,” Florence thought, as she noticed it; “poor old dear. I wonder if it will go to Madame Celestine, or what she will do with it. And I wonder where she is gone.”
griffen
CHAPTER VII.
Florence’sspeculations concerning Aunt Anne were brought to an end by the arrival of Mr. Fisher. She was surprised at his paying her so early a visit, and for a moment feared lest it should mean bad news from Walter. But his benevolent expression reassured her.
“I hope you will forgive my intruding on you at this hour, Mrs. Hibbert,” he said. “My visit is almost a business one, if I may venture to call it so, and I hope its result may be pleasant to us both.” His manner was a faint echo of Aunt Anne’s. “I would have written to ask you to see me, but the idea that brings me only occurred to me an hour or two ago.”
“But of course I would see you,” she answered brightly. “And I think the morning is a delicious time of day to which we devote far too much idleness.”
“I thoroughly agree with you,” he said, and looked at her approvingly, for he was quite alive to the duties of domesticity. In his short married life it had been an everlasting irritation to him that his wife was a slattern and wholly indifferent about her home. It had made him keen to observe the ways of other women; though the sight of a well-kept house always depressed him a little, for it set him thinking of the denials in his own life, of what he might have had and could have been; it made him also a little extra deferential and gracious to the woman who presided over it. He was so to Florence this morning. He had noticed quickly that all signs of breakfast had vanished, he divined that the children were out of doors, and that she herself, with her slate and account-books, was deep in household matters. It was thus he thought that a woman should chiefly concern herself. Her husband, children, and home were her business in life. The rest could be left to the discretion and management of men. He felt that it was almost a duty on his part, in the absence of her husband, to discreetly manage Florence. Moreover, in the intervals of editing his paper, he had a turn for editing the lives of other people, and he felt it almost an obligation to give a good deal of time to the consideration of the private affairs of his staff. He liked the Hibberts too, and was really anxious to be good and useful to them. He had come to the conclusion that it was a pity that Florence and her children should stay in London while Walter was away. “She would be much better in the country,” he thought; “the children could run about; besides, what is the good of keeping that cottage near Witley empty?” and then he remembered his own mother, who was seventy years old and lived far off in the wilds of Northumberland. Her sole amusement appeared to be writing her son letters, lamenting that he never went to stay with her, and that since he lived in small and inconvenient bachelor chambers, she could not go and stay with him. It had been her desire that he should marry again. She had told him that it was foolish not to do so, that she could die happy if he had a wife to take care of him. But he never answered a word. “It would not be a bad idea if I had the old lady up for a couple of months, and took the Hibberts’ house,” he said to himself. The idea grew upon him. He imagined the dinners he could give to his staff and their wives—not to the outside world, for it bothered him. “We might ask Ethel Dunlop occasionally,” he thought; “a nice girl in her twenties, fond of pleasure, would brighten up the old lady.” He remembered the twenties with regret, and wished they were thirties; then he would not have felt so keenly the difference in years between them. But he reflected that after all he was still in the prime of life, as a man is, if he chooses, till he is fifty; and he struggled to feel youthful; but struggle as he would, youthful feelings held aloof. They were coy after forty, he supposed, and looking back he consoled himself by thinking that they had been rather foolish. Then he thought of Ethel’s cousin; confound her cousin! she seemed to like going about with him. Perhaps he made love to her; yet he was too much of a hobble-de-hoy for that, surely—three-and-twenty at most—a very objectionable time of life in the masculine sex, a time of dash and impudence and doing of things from sheer bravado at which wisdom, knowledge, and middle age hesitated. Ethel was probably only amusing herself with him. To fall in love with a cousin would show a lack of originality of which he was slow to suspect her. He wondered what the cousin did, and if he wanted a post of any sort; if he had a turn for writing and adventure. Perhaps he could be sent as special correspondent to the Gold Coast, where the climate would probably sufficiently engross him. Ethel at any rate might be invited to see his mother, it would cheer the old lady up to have a girl about her. Yes, he had quite made up his mind. Mrs. Hibbert should go to her country cottage with her two children; he would take the house near Portland Road for a couple of months, and the rest would arrange itself.
“I don’t know whether Walter would like it,” Florence said, when Mr. Fisher had explained his errand.
“I’ll answer for Walter,” Mr. Fisher said concisely. Of course he, a man, knew better than she did what Walter, also a man, would like; that was plainly conveyed in his manner. “It will be better for you and the children,” he went on, with gracious benevolence, for as he looked at Florence he thought how girlish she was. He felt quite strongly that in her husband’s absence it was his duty to look after her, and to teach her, pleasantly, the way in which she should go. It was absurd to suppose that a woman should know it without any direction from his sex, and he was now the proper person to give it. “I will send you plenty of novels to read, and if you would allow me to introduce you to her,” he added, with a shade of pomposity in his voice, “there is a friend of mine at Witley—Mrs. Burnett. You would be excellent companions for each other, I should say, for her husband comes up to town every morning, and——”
“I know her a little,” Florence said, “a tall, slight woman with sweet grey eyes.”
“I never looked at her eyes,” Mr. Fisher said quickly, and Florence felt reproved for having mentioned them. Of course, he would not look at the eyes of a married woman. Mr. Fisher had clear and distinct views about the proprieties, which he thought were invented especially for married and marriageable women. “Perhaps Miss Dunlop would pay you a visit,” he suggested.
“She has her father to take care of. Besides, Mrs. Baines is staying with me.”
“I saw Mrs. Baines with Wimple the other day. Has she adopted him?”
“With Mr. Wimple,” Florence said, bewildered at the sudden mention of the name again; and then remembering Walter, she added loyally, “she likes him because he is Walter’s friend.”
“He writes well,” Mr. Fisher answered, as if he were making a remark that surprised himself. “He has done some work for us, and done it very well too.”
Then he unfolded the details in regard to the taking of the house.
Florence found to her surprise that he had arranged them all carefully.
“Let me see,” he said, “this is Monday. You can go on Saturday, I suppose? I think that would be the best day for my mother to arrive.”
“Oh yes. There are things to get ready and to put away, of course.”
“They won’t take you long,” he answered shortly.
“I dare say it will do the children good,” she said, reluctantly.
“Of course it will.”
“I might ask Aunt Anne to take the children to-morrow—I am sure she would—then I could soon get the place ready.”
“Mrs. Baines? Yes, it would be an excellent plan to send her on first.”
“It is very kind of you; don’t you think that you are really paying too much rent, Mr. Fisher?”
“Not at all, not at all; it is a fair one, and I shall be very glad to have the house.”
She was really a nice little woman, he thought, docile, and far from stupid; she only wanted a little managing. He had a suspicion that Walter was too easy-going, and if so, this little experience would be excellent for her; it would teach her that after all men were the governing race. It was so foolish when women did not recognize it.
“Very well then, you will go on Saturday? Good-bye. Oh, I should like to ask Miss Dunlop to come and see my mother; do you think she would mind cheering her up sometimes?”
“Oh no. She is a nice girl too.”
“We might make a party to the theatre one night perhaps. By the way, Mrs. Hibbert,” he exclaimed, a sudden thought striking him, “I shall write to Walter as soon as I get to the office and tell him of this arrangement. I might as well enclose a note from you. The mail goes out to-day from Southampton, so that it would be too late to post, but I am sending specially by rail. I will wait while you write a note, and enclose it in mine.”
“I wrote by this mail last night,” she answered. “But I should like to tell him about the house—he might be angry.” She laughed at the last words. She only said them to keep up Walter’s dignity.
“Oh no, he won’t be angry,” Mr. Fisher laughed back, and Florence thought he was quite good-looking when he was not too grave. He did not look more than forty either; perhaps Ethel might be happy with him. Then, when she had written a few lines, he departed, satisfied with the result of his visit.
An odd thing happened about that note. He went straight to the office and found a dozen matters of business awaiting his attention, and all remembrance of the Hibberts fled from him. Suddenly, an hour later, he dived into his pocket for a memorandum, and pulled out an unopened white envelope. He did not look at the address. “What’s this?” he said in utter forgetfulness, and tore it open; and—for his own name caught his eye—he read a passage in Mrs. Hibbert’s note to her husband:—
“——he is a kind old fogey, and I think he likes Ethel D. Would it not be funny if he married her?”
He folded it up quickly for fear he should read more. “Why should it be funny?” he said to himself. The word haunted him all day.
Meanwhile Aunt Anne was deeply engaged. She was delighted with Florence’s unexpected gift; it would enable her to do a few things that only an hour or two ago she had felt to be impossible. She had not the least intention of paying Madame Celestine. She looked upon her as an inferior who must be content to wait till it was the pleasure of her superior to remember her bill, and any reminder of it she resented as a liberty. She spent a happy and very excited hour in Regent Street, and at eleven o’clock stood on the kerbstone critically looking for a hansom. She let several go by that did not please her; but at last with excellent instinct she picked out a good horse and a smart driver, and a minute later was whirling on towards Waterloo Station. She liked driving in hansoms; she was of opinion that they were well constructed, a great improvement on older modes of conveyance, and that it was the positive duty of people in a certain rank of life to encourage all meritorious achievements with their approval. She never for a moment doubted that she was one of those whose approval was important. She felt her own individuality very strongly, and was convinced that the world recognized it. She was keenly sensible of making effects, and it was odd, but for all her eccentricities, there was in her the making of a great lady; or it might have seemed to a philosophical speculator that she was made of the worn-out fragments of some past great lady, and dimly remembered at intervals her former importance. She had perfect control over her manner, and could use it to the best advantage; she had reserve, a power of keeping off familiarity, a graciousness, a winsomeness when she chose, that all belonged to a certain type and a certain class. As she went on swiftly to the station she looked half-disdainfully, yet compassionately, at the people who walked and the people who passed in omnibuses. She told herself that the last were excellent institutions, she wondered what the lower class would do without them; it rejoiced her to think that they had not got to do without them, it was a satisfaction to feel that she could enjoy her own superior condition without compunction.
At Waterloo, with an air of decision that showed a perfect knowledge of her own generosity, she gave the cabman sixpence over his fare and walked slowly into the station. She looked up and down the platform from which the Portsmouth train would depart, but saw no one she knew. She stood for a moment hesitating, and winked slowly to herself. Then she went to the bookstall and bought aTimesand aMorning Post. The one cost threepence and the other was fashionable. She disliked penny papers. Again her mania for present-giving asserted itself, and quickly she bought also a pile of illustrated papers and magazines. “Gentlemen always like theField,” she said to herself, and added it to the heap. She turned away with them in her arms, and as she did so Alfred Wimple stood facing her.
“I have ventured to get you a few papers, hoping they would beguile you on your journey,” she said.
Mr. Wimple was as grave as ever and as rickety on his legs. His face showed no sign of pleasure at the sight of the old lady, but his manner was deferential; he seemed to be trying to impress certain indefinite facts upon her.
“I never read in a train,” he answered, “but I shall be glad of them at the end of the journey. Thank you.”
He said the last two words with a sigh, and put them in the corner he had already secured of the railway carriage. He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes before he started. He seemed to consider something for a moment, looking critically at the old lady while he did so.
“Cannot I persuade you to give me your address in Hampshire?” He coughed a little. “Have you your glycerine lozenges with you?” she asked hurriedly.
“Yes,” he answered, “they are in my pocket. I will write to you, Mrs. Baines; I may have something of importance to say.”
“Everything that you say is important,” she answered nervously.
He got into the train and sat down.
“I am tired,” he said; “you must excuse me for not standing any longer.” He shivered as he opened the window. “I dislike third class,” he added, “but I go by it on principle; I am not rich enough to travel by any other, Mrs. Baines,” and he looked at her fixedly.
She was silent, she seemed fascinated, she looked at him for a moment and winked absently; then a thought seemed to strike her and she started.
“Wait!” she exclaimed; “I will return in a moment,” and she hurried away.
In five minutes she came back breathless with excitement. “I have taken a great liberty,” she said humbly, “but you must forgive me. I have ventured to get you this ticket; will you please me by changing into a first-class carriage? You must imagine that you are my guest,” and she looked at him anxiously. “The guard is waiting——”
“I cannot refuse you anything, Mrs. Baines.” And with a chastened air he pulled his portmanteau from under the seat. The guard was waiting outside for it, and took it to an empty carriage. Mr. Wimple followed, Aunt Anne carrying the papers. He took his place and looked round satisfied. The guard touched his hat to the old lady and went his way. Mrs. Baines gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“Now I shall feel content, and you will not be disturbed,” she added triumphantly. “I have spoken——” She stopped, for his hacking cough came back; she seemed to shrink with pain as she heard it.
“I am quite an invalid,” he said impressively.
“I wish I were going with you to nurse you.”
“I need nursing, Mrs. Baines,” he answered sadly. “I need a great many things.”
“I wish I could give them to you.”
He looked at her curiously; as if the words came from him without his knowledge, he said suddenly, “I see Sir William Rammage is a little better.”
“I am going to inquire after him this morning,” she answered, and then she drew a little parcel from beneath her shawl. “I want you to put this into your pocket,” she said, “and to open it by-and-by; it is only a trifling proof that I thought of you as I came along.”
“I always think of you,” he said, almost reproachfully, as, without a word of thanks, he put the parcel out of sight.
“Not more than I do of you,” she said, in a low choking voice. “I hear you cough in my sleep; and it grieves me to think how hard you have to work.”
“I can’t take care of myself,” he said; “I was always careless, Mrs. Baines, and I must work. Fisher is a very fidgety man to work for; it has taken me three days to review a small book on American law, and even now I am not sure that he will be satisfied.”
His voice never varied, the expression of his eyes never changed save once for a moment. She had taken off her gloves and was resting her hands, thin and dry, on the ledge of the carriage window while she leant forward to talk to him, and suddenly he looked down at them. They seemed to repel him, he drew back a very little; she saw the movement and followed his eyes; she understood perfectly; for she had quick insight, and courage to face unflinchingly even truths that were not pleasant. She drew her hands away and rubbed them softly one over the other, as if by doing so she could put young life into them. Suddenly with a jerk the train moved.
“Good-bye,” she said excitedly. “Good-bye; if I write to the address in town will the letter be forwarded?”
But he could only nod. In a moment he was out of sight. He did not lean forward to look after her, he sat staring into space. “She must be seventy,” he said. “I wonder——” Then he felt in his pocket for the third-class ticket he no longer needed. “Probably they will return the amount I paid for it.” A sudden thought struck him. He looked at the ticket Mrs. Baines had given him. “It is for Portsmouth,” he said grimly. The one he had taken himself had been for Liphook.